


The Plant That Never Blooms

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Falling In Love, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Sexuality Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be very clever to blame it all on global warming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plant That Never Blooms

When Tsukiyama was thirteen and had just moved to Tokyo, he read a poem by a woman who used the nom de plume of Joan Ure that went:  


    A country makes the artists it deserves  
As it makes governments  
Our artists shriek in paranoiac discords  
When they are not just havering  
You hope they do not feel they speak for you

Tsukiyama read it under his desk instead of listening to some trivial point about insect biology. The teachers never caught him when he did this because Tsukiyama was smart about it. He didn't hold his book or his phone under his desk with his hands, balancing them on his thighs or propped on his lap with one leg crossed over the other. He always kept one hand where the teacher could see, holding his mechanical pencil over his notebook and taking regular notes. School was as much a practice in learning subterfuge as it was about getting the right credentials, meeting the right people, crafting and perfecting the right masks.

It's sometime around then, in that first year in Tokyo, that Tsukiyama starts looking in the mirror and being surprised at what's there. 

 

"We can't."

Six heads turn to him. Tsukiyama doesn't flinch. He's spent the past decade learning never to show weakness.

Kaneki frowns, his hand curling in his lap. "Why not?"

Tsukiyama points his finger at the map. "I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head and showing his hands, "but we can't hunt there. My family conducts business in the 6th Ward."

Kaneki continues to frown, fingers curling further into fists. "What sort of business?"

Any upper-class ghoul would know the answer to that question. There's a reason that Tsukiyama has easy wander of all the wards. But none of the people in this room are the type of people that Tsukiyama was brought up around. He's the alien in this.

"There's an execution chamber in the Tokyo Detention House," Tsukiyama says, and it's as blunt as he ever gets.

He doesn't bother trying to smile. It is very quiet. He remembers going with his grandfather to watch one of the executions of a human criminal, a murderer and a rapist. Grandfather is a high court judge, and he regularly attends the execution of those who are condemned. It had been an object lesson about power, although how exactly Tsukiyama was supposed to interpret it he still isn't sure. Whatever the reason was, it was the first time that Tsukiyama saw a human kill another human. It was a hanging, an abrupt drop. The room was very sterile and the stage very clinical. Despite all the Tsukiyama has become since then, he still doesn't know what to think of that.

"I don't," Kaneki says, his eyes clear of all readable emotions, "understand, but we won't hunt there."

Tsukiyama inclines his head. "Thank you very much," he says, looking at his knees.

The silence stretches for an unusually long time.

 

"Your stance is wrong."

Kaneki frowns at him, hands raised in fists, legs spaced apart. "How so?"

Tsukiyama responds by throwing a punch. Kaneki dodges successfully but stumbles, throwing out his hands hastily to break his fall. Tsukiyama stops the kick that would have taken in Kaneki's skull just before it connects. White hair brushes over navy blue pants.

"You were imitating my stance," Tsukiyama says, lowering his leg and standing in parade rest, "and reflecting my centre of gravity. I'm taller and have developed a heavier build to support my koukaku kagune."

Kaneki squints up at him, still frowning but more in concentration rather than annoyance or anger. "So what do you suggest?"

Tsukiyama tilts his head to one side, feels the crick in it pop. It's a huge relief. It's been stiff for almost three days. He lets out a relieved sigh.

"Come at me," he says, settling himself into a boxing stance. "Without your kagune."

The fact of the matter, Tsukiyama thinks as Kaneki begins, is that, since what happened to him due to Aogiri Tree, Kaneki outstrips him easily in raw power. Tsukiyama is a talented ghoul, but he is limited in raw strength. Not because of the koukaku nature of his kagune but because he himself is physically not exceptionally strong. This is something that he learned early, when Grandfather was still physically able to train and spar with him. The number of times Tsukiyama was left to regenerate parts to his body on the floor of the training room in his childhood home are pointless to count. 

Kaneki throws too wide and Tsukiyama lands a solid jab to Kaneki's right eye. The flesh gives with a sickening squelch, the scent of tears, blood, and the odd tang of a fresh eyeball's gore coiling momentarily in the air. Kaneki crouches, swearing and covering his face defensively. Tsukiyama lifts his left fist to his mouth, licks the flecks of blood and popped eye from his skin before it can escape. It tastes exquisite, and he suckles on his knuckles even after he knows the remnants are gone.

"Get up," he murmurs, sounding very far away to his own ears. "And don't let your guard down."

To fully take advantage of a koukaku kagune, Tsukiyama would need to be broader built than he is and to have better ankles. He's able to compensate for his physical deficiencies with exceptional self-control, but that saps his stamina relatively quickly. He's conservative in style, heavily reliant on technique and reading his opponent rather than attempting to be a tank or a melee fighter. Back when Tsukiyama competed in fencing and boxing in high school, it had been all about self-control, surrounded by so many sweating, heaving human bodies.

He catches a misaligned jab and jerks Kaneki's hand down, throwing him off balance badly enough that he doesn't have time to catch himself with his hands before he hits the ground. Kaneki yells, his kagune exploding out of his back to soften the impact. Tsukiyama backs up a couple of paces, breathing deep and forcibly even through his nose. Kaneki smells like frustration and intense concentration. He pushes himself up with his hands, breathing fast and heavy. Sweat drips off his brow onto the tile.

"Stop," he grits out, "going easy on me."

Tsukiyama hears himself laugh, the sort of laugh he only hears escape him when he's fully awake, fully indulging in the ghoul that he is. Kaneki gazes up at him and does not flinch. It makes Tsukiyama's pulse drum in his ears. He salivates.

"As you wish, Kaneki-kun."

 

Tsukiyama was six-years-old the first time he was gutted.

At that time, he'd thought it was the worst pain he'd ever experienced. He'd cried about it, even after he'd healed and Grandfather had left in disgust. He'd cried even more when he realised that Grandfather had locked the training room's door. It was punishment for both his failure to anticipate the stab that left him skewered on Grandfather's koukaku kagune and for crying. Tsukiyama isn't sure how long he was left in the training room. It didn't have a clock and there were no windows. He'd woken up in his room, sometime after falling asleep in his own dried blood and gore, cleaned up and dressed in pajamas like nothing had happened.

"What's this?" 

Tsukiyama holds the book out until Kaneki takes it, turns it over to read the cover. He squints.

"Wow, the kanji is really old."

"It's a hand to hand training manual for ghouls."

Kaneki looks at him, surprise written across his eyes and face. Tsukiyama inhales. He smells bright yet coiling, Rize's femininity an open flower.

"Ghouls publish training manuals?"

"They used to," Tsukiyama says, looking down at the book rather than at Kaneki's face. "I think that was one of the last written here in Japan."

Kaneki opens the cover. Tsukiyama feels the way he stops, looking at the calligraphic dedication and then the childish scrawl that mars the cover page. _To my beloved son_ , the calligraphy reads. _Tsukiyama Asahi_ , the childish scrawl reads. Kaneki scent shifts, banked and very quiet.

"Who?"

"My great-grandfather and my grandfather." Tsukiyama stands up, his heart too close to his ears. "It was a very long time ago."

 

He grew up in a world that is quickly becoming a relic. There were high walls and stone gardens and trees older than most of which grow at the temple up the mountain. There were empty guest houses and musty stores of ancient kimonos meant to be worn to long ago courts. Tsukiyama was left largely alone in this quiet, pale world, wandering in the flowerless gardens and scrolls older than some of the trees trailing behind him.

He doesn't think that he was a particularly needy child. He learned quickly. Crying was unsightly and discouraged, and it was outright forbidden once he was able to control his kakugan and kagune. He learned to speak politely and properly because if he didn't, no one would respond to him. He learned to read even faster than he learned to speak because if he didn't, then it would only be silence interspersed by training sessions with Grandfather. He learned to accept what he was given, to work for what he wanted. By the time he moved to Tokyo, he made his own money through his investments, hunted his own food, chose his own clothes. In some ways, he had an incredibly permissive upbringing. Tsukiyama won't complain about that.

Banjou wipes sweat off of his forehead and out of his eyes with the back of his hand, wiping it on the leg of his pants. Tsukiyama grimaces, only partially in distaste. He's hot, too. His dress shirt sticks to his back. He can't remove his mask to wipe himself down.

"The hell is with this spring?"

It's the hottest spring on record. "Global warming."

Banjou snorts out of a laugh before he catches himself. The portion of his face visible over his mask screws up. Tsukiyama smiles. He gives in and threads his fingers back through his hair, ruffling it to help relieve the heat building up their before pushing his fringe back into place.

"What's taking him so long?"

Tsukiyama inhales. The stench of ghoul blood is as heavy as the heat and humidity. He feels his smile stretch. Warp.

"Banjou-kun," he says because the stench and the weather is making him feel a little bit dizzy, "what are you going to do after all of this?"

It makes Banjou look at him. They're not terribly different in height, but, standing next to each other on this rooftop, Banjou doubtlessly looks bigger. Banjou's build isn't much taller than Tsukiyama's, but he's much more naturally solid than Tsukiyama ever could be. It's ironic, Tsukiyama thinks, that Banjou is such a soft person. 

"What do you mean?"

Tsukiyama gestures broadly, the motion unsticking his dress shirt from his back momentarily. "People like us," he says, making a circular motion with his right wrist, "there's a poem: _La Lune Blanche_."

it's Banjou's turn to grimace. "You're making fun of me."

Tsukiyama shakes his head. It makes Banjou raise his eyebrows in disbelief. For once, Tsukiyama isn't trying to undermine. He doesn't really know why he wants to have this conversation nor why with Banjou, but it feels extremely necessarily at the moment. He feels a little bit overheated. That must be why.

"The white moon, framed by the shadow of a willow, reflects off a pond for an hour, an exquisite moment of vast and tender calm," Tsukiyama says, although he feels acutely how poorly the paraphrase renders the poem. "The moon, the willow, the reflection: it is beautiful. But it does not last forever."

Beneath their feet the building tremors. Not particularly hard, but enough that they both instinctively brace themselves. But the tremor settles and isn't followed by another. Slowly, Banjou breathes out, his attention returning to Tsukiyama. His eyebrows are pulled together, his eyes slightly squinted. He studies Tsukiyama unabashedly for a long moment before sighing, a heavy gust through his mask.

"I didn't go to school," he says, low and more than a little resigned, "so I don't understand half the shit you say. But I think I get the gist of what you're trying to describe. I don't know. I don't have a plan for my life like you do."

Tsukiyama laughs. It makes Banjou's expression turn momentarily angry before it falters and he looks away. Tsukiyama places his fingers to his lips, smiling into them. His lips are chapped and snag on the deep grooves in his fore and middle fingers.

"Don't feel bad," Tsukiyama says, and it comes out like he's teasing even though he isn't sure if it actually is. "Some plans are meant to go awry."

 

It happens like most things do. It comes as a surprise. It hits like a ton of bricks. It leaves bruises.

Kaneki looks at him with eyes so wide that it stirs the memory of the Ghoul Restaurant in what seems like years but was really only months ago. Tsukiyama looks up, the scent memory of Scrapper's blood marring his perception. He can smell Kaneki's breath, coming in gasping puffs. He can smell -

"Get out."

Tsukiyama draws in a breath. He realises he hasn't been breathing. It makes his voice come out wispy, almost wavering.

"You'll have to get off of me, Kaneki-kun."

There's an uncoordinated scrambling of limbs. Kaneki backs off of him like he's a bug doused in water, his arms, legs, and kagune flailing about. Tsukiyama sits up, gets his legs back under himself, and uses his hands to push himself to his feet. He feels the world tilt, attempting to pitch him off. His knees hit the floor hard. Scent memories of Scrapper, Kaneki, the Ghoul Restaurant, that church, the taste of his own flesh: they war about in his skull.

"I -" Tsukiyama puts his hands over his eyes, elbows supported by and digging into the top of his own thighs. "I think I hit my head."

More scrabbling noises. Kaneki mutters something that Tsukiyama can't hear. He wants to obey Kaneki's command, but Tsukiyama isn't entirely sure he can. He presses the heels of his hands to his temples, sliding them to cup over his ears. His mouth tastes like scent memories and something he cannot comprehend else he render the fabric of the world apart. 

They remain like this for a very long time: Kaneki scrabbling about in jerky, discordant, uncoordinated motions, Tsukiyama curled upon his knees with his ears and eyes shut. It would be quite the picture, should Banjou and his cohort or HInami decide to come down to investigate. The Centipede and the Gourmet, the greatest example of keep your friends close and your enemies closer, both rendered completely senseless by a single, mindless, woe-begotten kiss.

Tsukiyama wishes, absurdly, that he could remember how to cry. It would be better than what he feels growing in his chest. It stretches. It threatens to strangle him.

It's all he can do not to scream.

 

Pablo Neruda wrote:  


    I love you as the plant that never blooms  
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;  
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

Tsukiyama can't get that damn verse out of his head. He finds himself distracted even moreso than he usually is these days. Maybe he isn't eating enough. He knows that his sparring activity with Kaneki is more regular exertion than he's had in a while. But he hasn't been particularly hungry. The only thing he wants to eat is Kaneki, and that -

"You have a strange look on your face."

Banjou. They're sitting in the alleyway between a car park and a warehouse. Kaneki is eating more ghouls inside of the warehouse, and the car park is abandoned. They are in the 4th Ward.

"Do I." 

He'd meant to pose it as a question, but it comes out a little breathy and somewhat dazed. It makes Banjou frown.

"Yeah," Banjou says, treating it like it was properly intoned. "You're really pale."

Tsukiyama blinks, although Banjou can't see that behind his mask. "Oh," he says, probably even more dazedly than before. "I have a stomach ache."

There is no universe in which the look on Banjou's face is complimentary. "Sometimes I think you're the most manipulative asshole I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, and then you say such oblivious shit like that."

There's so many objectionable words in that sentence. "Such language," Tsukiyama says, a kneejerk reaction if there ever was one.

"Elitist bastard," Banjou says, but his expression is an easier one; this is more their flavour.

The wall at their back gives a hollow thud followed by an illustrative squelching crunch. It makes Banjou wince. Tsukiyama opens his mouth. Shuts it. Licks his lips. They always end up chapped when he's on lookout for some odd reason.

"I wish he'd hurry up," Banjou mutters, crossing his arms, shoulders hunching. 

Tsukiyama smiles. He breathes in. He can smell Kaneki, ravenous, desperate, wanting. 

It's a certain solid fragrance.

 

This is a story about a monster.

Tsukiyama never liked monster stories. After all, he never imagined monsters under the bed. He didn't need to. The monsters were in his house. Inside his parents and grandparents. Inside of him. Why would he want to read stories about something he knew all about? Ghouls are monsters. There's no denying that fact. There's no reason for him to fear what he is, and he never has. 

So this is a story about a monster. A ghoul, or, rather, a number of ghouls. There's some humans, who are supporting characters. Tsukiyama didn't intend for this to happen, but if he was to take a step back and examine it, he would conclude that the inclusion of humans was inevitable. After all, when a single world has two intelligent species, the intersection of their respective spheres is inevitable. Even the gods come down from the Heavens on occasion.

It's deliberate this time. They both see it coming. Tsukiyama catches a half-hearted punch, bringing them closer together. Kaneki steps forward, pushing them just off-balance. The instinct to use his greater height and weight against Kaneki doesn't kick in. Tsukiyama just lets it happen.

Because it isn't a shock, there's no mistake, no messy confusion of scent memories. Their eyes are open. Kaneki has the lead, but his inexperience is painfully obvious. Tsukiyama has to adjust them, guide their bodies, mouths, angles. Kaneki sucks in a deep, billowing breath.

"Have you," he murmurs, lips slippery and words placed right into Tsukiyama's mouth, "done this before?"

Tsukiyama kisses him. He tastes like stale coffee. Tsukiyama lowers himself, knees to the tile, and Kaneki chases, like breaking lip to lip contact will somehow put a stopper in him, in this. Tsukiyama isn't so blind.

"Kissed?" and he presses another to the side of Kaneki's mouth, holding the hand he caught still but taking a liberty and steadying the other on the opposite shoulder. "Yes. Forgive me."

It makes Kaneki laugh a little. Tsukiyama wants to know what that tastes like. Kaneki smells like he always has, which is exquisite, but there's a duality to his arousal, both masculine and feminine. Tsukiyama has never been picky. This is like a buffet.

"Forgive you?" Kaneki asks, amused, when Tsukiyama pulls back to breathe because even ghouls need air. "What did you do?"

His mouth remains open, lips parted, but his brain stutters. Tsukiyama shuts his mouth, swallows. His head feels foggy. He thinks, unbidden, of kneeling in his mother's garden, ten years old. There were tulips that year. Red, pink, white, and pale, pale blue. He remembers spending hours outside that summer.

"Tsukiyama?"

He leans up, pulls down, presses his lips against Kaneki's jaw. He places butterfly kisses there and up the shell of the ear. Kaneki sighs and lets him. Tsukiyama wants to commit that sound, that feeling, the smells, sights, and sensations, all of it to memory.

"Let's not," he whispers, "talk about unpleasant things."

Ghouls are monsters, but even the gods come down from the Heavens on occasion.

 

This is a bad idea.

Tsukiyama knows it. Kaneki probably knows it, too. They're hunter and hunter, and neither of them know how to submit nor how to be mimic prey. They're doing this for selfish reasons. Tsukiyama because he has never been unselfish, never been allowed to be. Kaneki because he's desperate and terrified and lonely despite all his new found power.

It's the hottest summer on record and Kaneki kisses like he's dying. Tsukiyama is pretty sure he's dying, too, although for different reasons. Kaneki knows what he wants, and Tsukiyama will give it to him. It's not hard to figure these kinds of things out, and Tsukiyama is the experienced one.

"Of all the things," Kaneki comments the first time he reaches between them, palming with clumsy curiosity between Tsukiyama's legs, "for you to be a cold fish about."

Maybe some people would get mad about a comment like that, but it made Tsukiyama laugh. One of his real ones. It came out bright and too light for the humid atmosphere. It makes Kaneki look at him, eyes curious and searching, just like his hand.

"I'm not a fish," Tsukiyama says, and he doesn't even have to lie for a change.

Kaneki rolls his eyes but presses onwards. As per his request, they don't talk about unpleasant things, not when their sparring turns to this. There's plenty more time to talk about unpleasant things, like how many ghouls Kaneki needs to eat this week or why Tsukiyama's body doesn't react sexually. In this case, it's convenient. This is about Kaneki and Tsukiyama getting Kaneki to trust him. It's about Kaneki satisfying his hunger and Tsukiyama serving him. That has not and will not change.

"Here."

It earns him a curious look. It's a surprisingly simple expression, inquiring and a little wary but nothing else. It makes Tsukiyama's heart flutter, some colour probably working its way into his cheeks. It's as close to trust as he's ever seen in Kaneki.

"Straddle my leg."

Kaneki catches on immediately. His shifts, settling his crotch over Tsukiyama's thigh like one might straddle a horse. Tsukiyama taps his shoulders, and Kaneki lifts his hands up to brace himself on them. 

"Take your time."

And that's the thing that makes this a bad idea. They want to take the time. Since this started, Kaneki looks at him outside of sparring sometimes, really looks at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. It makes Banjou and his followers glance nervously between them, and it draws inquiring looks from Hinami. Tsukiyama knows he shouldn't because he, at least, is aware of what is happening, but he finds himself smiling back. A real one, the kind that softens the angles of his face and brightens his eyes. He finds himself saying things he should have kept in his head, offering information that isn't absolutely relevant. He finds himself forgetting the only thing that has ever been expected of him: his self-control.

"Oh -"

It's mid-June. Kaneki tastes like salt and umami and the unique, addictive sweetness that Tsukiyama thinks has been permanently imprinted onto his brain. He's always had an obsession with scent memories and their connection to taste. It drove him to become the Gourmet, and he had always been satisfied with that. 

Now, though, he realises that there's a part to Tsukiyama that's always been lacking. There's a part to him that simply doesn't feel, not as he thinks he should. It never mattered before, because he has always approached situations that required sex as the Gourmet, and the Gourmet only needed sex to enhance the flavour of food. Now, though, he doesn't feel, not like how he knows Kaneki does, not like how his previous partners have. 

"I -" Kaneki grunts, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "I thought _this_ would finally get you excited."

Tsukiyama breathes out through his nose, careful not to let his teeth graze the delicate flesh in his mouth. He is the Gourmet, and he is a ghoul; he can't promise that he has that much self-control. There's a fine line between who he is and who he isn't. There's a part of Tsukiyama, he's coming to realise with every single time that they end up like this, that he doesn't like at all.

"I don't understand you," Kaneki mutters, post-coital and terribly honest. 

Tsukiyama doesn't either, although he will never show it. He never cared about getting off himself before, but, with Kaneki, it feels like he should. He feels like he should be able to mirror Kaneki's enjoyment, his physicality, but Tsukiyama just can't. For him, sex is almost clinical. Arousal tears through Kaneki, blows his kakugan and catches his breath. For Tsukiyama, he's lucky if he feels more than the physical heat, a vague sort of appreciation of his body's instinctive responses. He isn't sure if it was his upbringing as a relic or if he's simply more of a monster than most, but in this, when it's Kaneki, it suddenly seems to matter.

"Really, Kaneki-kun," Tsukiyama says, cross-legged on the bed that's just right for one and far too narrow for two, "in this, I'm very simple."

He knows it doesn't sound like it, but it's the truth. Tsukiyama doesn't feel anything from sex. He never did. It's only now that it matters. He wants to feel something, wants to know what it is that shifts Kaneki's scent and taste when they tumble each other. He wants to know what he's missing. Tsukiyama really is a very simple person. He wants something, so he tries to figure out how to get it. He's selfish. This has been true even when he was so little he couldn't control his kagune or kakugan.

Outside in Tokyo, summer blooms.

 

A country makes the artists it deserves.

The image of that execution, the hanging. A sharp drop. A quick stop.

 _I love you as the plant that never blooms_.

"Hhh -!"

He sits bolt upright and nearly falls off the edge of the bed. Instinct stops his fall, his kagune stabbing down into the floor and supporting his weight in shield position. Tsukiyama draws in long, shallow gasps of air. 

"Tsukiyama?"

Kaneki is watching him, blinking too much to be completely awake but aware enough to be cautious. Tsukiyama draws in another breath, heart thundering in his ears.

"Sorry," he says, although it comes out a little slurred; he realises he hasn't eaten in well over two weeks. "I don't know what got into me."

Kaneki doesn't say anything. Tsukiyama shuts his eyes and shakes his head hard like a wet dog. It rattles his brain a bit but doesn't do much for the fact he feels that awful combination of nauseous and hungry at the same time. It's not a new feeling, but it's one that he wouldn't mind purging from himself forever. Most ghouls have some issue with food. It's inevitable when all of their meals talk back. Sometimes, even seasoned hunters like the Gourmet make the mistake of listening.

_I love you_

Tsukiyama dry heaves, clapping a hand over his mouth. He gets up, uncaring of his current state of undress or the fact the window is open and looks out to the street. He staggers into the bathroom, turns on the cold water faucet in the sink and shoves his head directly underneath it. He counts resolutely to ten, and when he still wants to empty his stomach, he forces himself to start again.

Well, he thinks, more than a little hysterically, even if his body doesn't work properly, he apparently still has the full gambit of emotions.

He comes back into the bedroom with his hair dripping into his eyes, down his neck, over his chest. Kaneki looks up from his contemplation of his hands, blinking at him like the scene is terribly strange. Maybe it is.

"Your kakugan are still showing."

Tsukiyama shrugs. "I'm a bit out of sorts," he says, reaching up to massage his shoulder, the kakuhou throbbing quietly to remind him: "I need to eat a bit."

"Oh," Kaneki says, and his eyes skitter away to the window, uncomfortable. "Right now?"

Both his kakuhou and his kakugan hurt. "Not yet," he lies. "I can wait until morning."

Kaneki looks back at him. He blinks, nods, and yawns. His lips and tongue are pink and full. It makes Tsukiyama's stomach twist.

_I love you_

He turns back into the bathroom, sick again.

 

He's ravenous.

Tsukiyama isn't unfamiliar with the feeling, but it's not something he enjoys at all. He'll take being gutted or dismembered over hunger because at least being in incomprehensible pain allows him to keep his mind. It's the only reason he's eating the body he brought over a couple days ago to stock Kaneki's refrigerator. Not that Kaneki eats humans, but Tsukiyama takes his responsibility as Kaneki's sword seriously. Hinami, Banjou, and Banjou's followers still have to eat.

But he doesn't eat here. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. He still has to keep up his identity as the Gourmet, and he knows that he's been hunting too often in the surrounding area out of convenience. He's due for a show somewhere else, but Tsukiyama isn't so conceited as to think his current condition is optimal for hunting in, not with all the Doves crawling about these days. It's part of the reason Tsukiyama is this hungry in the first place. 

He must look a fright when Banjou comes into the kitchen. Banjou takes one look at him and nearly runs out of the house. 

"Oh," Banjou says, very awkwardly, "hello."

Tsukiyama has thankfully already eaten enough to have a relatively good hold on his self control. Good manners are very important. He swallows a mouthful of sinew. He holds out a plate of foot. 

"Do you want some?"

"Uh," Banjou says, staring at the foot.

He's probably confused as to where the toes are. Tsukiyama ate those already. Banjou doesn't take it, so Tsukiyama sets it down again. He resumes picking the meat off a knee. A silence descends, a little awkward. Tsukiyama is very used to awkward atmospheres, and he isn't so finnicky as to let it put him off his food.

Banjou doesn't do well with silence. "I've never seen you eat before."

It makes Tsukiyama squint at him as he swallows a mouthful of meat. "So?"

"You're -" Banjou's jaw works awkwardly; he seems too large for the entire sitting room and kitchen, "neat."

It makes Tsukiyama laugh, a little bit harder than really warranted. He has to set down his utensils to cover his mouth with his hand because his mouth is full. He's had the foot's toes and the entirety of the leg it was originally attached to, which is far more than he usually eats but is apparently what his body required. He's starting to feel a bit more normal, although he knows if he stops eating now he'll feel ravenous again in couple of hours.

Banjou sits down across the table, directly in front of Tsukiyama but out of arm's reach. He's looking at the packaging still out on the counter. 

"You shouldn't let yourself get this hungry," he says, which is a strangely insightful thing for him to say. 

Tsukiyama sets aside the cleaned knee and pulls the foot in front of himself. "Why, Banjou-kun, are you concerned?" he coos, carving off a cut of flesh from the heel.

There's a pause. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Tsukiyama looks up at Banjou, fork of meat halfway to his mouth. Banjou is looking at him, eyebrows drawn together like he's faced with a puzzle.

"Should I be?"

Tsukiyama stares. Banjou matches his gaze, his eyebrows drawing in even closer, wrinkles deepening between them and on his forehead. It's a very ugly look. 

Tsukiyama raises his fork to his lips. Forces himself to smile. 

"Of course not," he says as he takes the bite.

He doesn't taste anything at all.

 

To the king, his daughter said, "I love you like meat loves salt."

Tsukiyama wipes sweat from under his jaw, his neck. It's another sweltering day, and Kaneki is feasting inside of a pawn shop that Banjou had once frequented to launder goods for other ghouls. It's only the second time that Banjou has had to supply a location for Kaneki to eat at, and Tsukiyama remembers why now. Banjou tries to hide it, but he's crying. It's a fascinating sight. Tsukiyama has to try very hard not to stare.

"Damn," Banjou mutters, wiping at his face and smearing tears and mucus everywhere. 

It makes Tsukiyama grimace. He pulls out a handkerchief and shoves it at Banjou, who just stares at it like he's never seen one before. Tsukiyama waves it.

"Take it."

Banjou's face scrunches; he must be frowning under his mask. "But -" he starts, sniffing mightily.

It threatens to make Tsukiyama's stomach turn. " _Take_ it and keep it."

Surprisingly, Banjou does. He mops the visible part of his face with the pale cotton and then blows his nose, careful not to be too noisy. Tsukiyama looks away. There's a few discarded beer cans and cigarette butts littering the back alleyway. There's a surge in the scent of blood behind him. It's acrid and burns the nasal passages. Kaneki is really taking his time.

"How can you stand it?"

"Mhm?"

Banjou drags in a hissing breath. "Do you have any idea how much I envied you?"

It makes Tsukiyama look back. Banjou gazes at him, devastated and torn open. No one has ever looked at Tsukiyama like that. It twists something in him. It doesn't allow him to look away.

"I used to think," Banjou whispers, barely audible over the overwhelming stench behind them, "you just didn't feel anything. You're such a weird guy, and I've known a lot of people that I thought you were like. Sadistic, sick bastards. Those kinds of people: nothing short of death stops them. But -"

Tsukiyama should make him shut up. He should say something. He doesn't want to hear this right now. The thing in his chest, though, it writhes and it's all Tsukiyama to do to not -

"It's the way you look at him," Banjou says, and it's distorted and too quick behind his mask; it's grotesque. "The way he looks at you sometimes. And I'm not so dumb: I live in the house, too, you know. I know what sex smells like. I know that you don't -"

He can't. Tsukiyama just can't. He's shaking his head. He shouldn't react, he should have better control, but he's shaking his head, his hands clenching into fists, pressing against his side. But there's a wildness to Banjou's eyes, a desperation. He's not saying this for Tsukiyama's benefit. He needs somewhere for his grief to go. Tsukiyama is just a convenient target.

"You don't enjoy it."

Tsukiyama should hit him. He should gut him for that. He's gutted and been gutted for far less. Banjou stares at him, eyes huge in his face. Behind them, audible through the wall, there's a multitude of cracking sounds. Banjou's face seems to stretch, eyes welling.

"You're smarter than all of us," he gets out, strained and high and so ugly. "You have a family somewhere. You have money. You could have a _life_ instead of -" and he motions to the alleyway, to the building, to the putrid, heavy air. "Why are you here?"

Tsukiyama doesn't say anything. Banjou stares at him for a long moment before he turns away, eyes screwing shut. He puts the soiled handkerchief over his face. He's crying again, harder than before. It's fascinating to watch. It helps to unstick Tsukiyama's throat.

"You're wrong."

There isn't a life for Tsukiyama anywhere but here.

 

For the first time, it's Tsukiyama who initiates contact. Kaneki eyes widen briefly in surprise before falling half-lidded. His hands steady quickly on Tsukiyama's shoulders, left thumb rubbing idly up and down. They kiss like that, standing in Kaneki's bathroom, Kaneki's still wet from the shower.

"This is different," Kaneki comments when they pull apart for air.

Tsukiyama looks at him, selfishly glad that the mirror is fogged over. "Do you mind?"

Kaneki shakes his head, no hesitation. "This is nice."

He tastes clean and very, very sweet. Tsukiyama feels himself sigh. It's lazy, the way he's choosing to kiss, giving him time to savor Kaneki. Kaneki lets him, kissing back, following Tsukiyama's lead. It's like they're boxing, or when Kaneki asks him to identify old-fashioned kanji. It makes Tsukiyama feel warm, deep in his chest, carrying in itself the light of hidden flowers.

They make their way out of the bathroom, to the bed. Tsukiyama smiles. Kaneki smiles back. Tsukiyama feels so warm. Not in the sweltering, heavy way that is the summer, but something else. Something esquisite. He wants it to last forever.

"May I?"

Kaneki nods. Tsukiyama wraps his arms around Kaneki's shoulders, pulls them down atop of the bedding. He shifts and Kaneki moves with him. They tangle together, Tsukiyama tucking his nose into Kaneki's hair. It's cool and wet and smells like sandalwood and honeysuckle shampoo.

 _I love you_ , he admits as he breathes in as deep as he can, _as the plant that never blooms._

"Oh," Kaneki sighs, "this _is_ nice."

It's a very bad idea. They both know it.

They fall asleep like that. 

 

When Tsukiyama was thirteen -

_You hope they do not feel they speak for you_

When Tsukiyama was six -

(It was a hanging, an abrupt drop.)

This is a story about -

_risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body_

Tsukiyama lies on a rooftop. 

(A relic.)

Nothing lasts forever.


End file.
